


What Do I Gain, What Do I Lose ?

by sosobriquet



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It will never be so simple again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do I Gain, What Do I Lose ?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noxnoctisanima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxnoctisanima/gifts).



16

 

_They had driven down to the creek to celebrate Boyd’s now-legal ability to drive his old pickup - formerly his daddy’s - with two jars of Arlo’s stomach-searing moonshine tucked under the seats. Purloined, of course, by Raylan._

_“A gift,” he’d said when presenting them, one jar in each hand. Boyd had laughed._

 

Halfway through his, Boyd slides down off the tailgate with a muttered, “damn uncomfortable place to sit and enjoy a drink.”

 

Raylan follows suit, leaving his own jar behind, more empty than full. He stumbles against Boyd’s back, body warm and breath hot on his neck.

 

“Boyd,” he says, with no particular purpose that Boyd can divine.

 

Boyd’s skin prickles with premonition, and still he cannot keep himself from turning to face Raylan. No more than he can stop his hands from framing Raylan's face, his littlest fingers brushing delicately over the curve of his neck.

 

“Yes, Raylan?” he asks.

 

Raylan’s answer is to lick his lips, stalling while he reaches for an answer he doesn’t have. It’s an old habit, a nervous tic Boyd’s witnessed a thousand times and never given a thought, but now it makes his breath quicken and his fingers press deeper into Raylan’s skin. It will never be so simple again.

 

When Raylan opens his mouth to say he doesn’t know, or ask what in hellfire he thinks he’s doing, Boyd takes his chance.

 

It’s a hard kiss, rough-and-tumble and too proud to be careful, too proud to ask. Raylan’s hands rake through Boyd’s hair - catching, pulling the short strands at the press of Boyd’s body against his. He’s buzzing with electricity, or alcohol, and he’s not sure if it’s the sharp, unfamiliar angles and rough edges, or if it’s just that it’s Boyd.

 

Boyd pulls him down onto the green, green grass, and Raylan saves such existential thoughts for another day.

  


19

 

Miles away from the mine, in Helen’s empty old house, they can still feel it - the rumble that will forever fill their dreams and empty their lungs. Even the dizziness of too much liquor can't shake the memory of the ground bucking beneath their feet as they ran, scared and clinging to the safety of a friend's hand.

 

They're still covered with coal dust, sitting at Helen’s kitchen table - no time to clean themselves up between the questions and their hurry to be somewhere, anywhere, else. Boyd opens the last jar, three empties already stacked on the worn wood. He drinks first, seeing as this one came from the Crowder stash, and passes it to Raylan.

 

Raylan takes his swallow, a slow sigh escaping as the bootleg liquor burns its way through him, and hands it back to Boyd slow and careful-like.

 

Boyd just holds it for a minute, watching Raylan scrape his fingers through his hair. He's always been the one with an itch to get the coal dust off him quick as he can. He drinks, and tries to pass it on to Raylan, who waves it away. Boyd ends up setting it down next to its empty mates, just in time to watch Raylan shuck his shirt off.

 

“Somethin' you want to tell me, Raylan?” Boyd drawls, low and teasing, so lazy his laugh is soundless, just a curve of his smile and eyes drifting half-closed.

 

“Don't know if you noticed, Boyd, but I’m covered in coal dust,” Raylan says, words clipped and not slurred, despite his drunkenness. “Helen’ll kill me, we get coal dust anywhere it won’t wipe off."

 

Boyd used to wonder at Raylan being able to talk so neat and clean, if a little slower, even at his most inebriated. Now, he doesn’t question it, or how much Raylan has imbibed. Until the last, they’d passed the whiskey swallow for swallow. Boyd’s been watching, and he knows Raylan’s been swallowing harder than he.

 

“I know how it troubles you to be unclean,” Boyd drawls, all smirk and tease. If Raylan was looking, and paying less attention to unlacing his boots, he’d see Boyd’s eyes drift down the hollow of his spine and across the curve of his ribs.

 

Raylan leaves his coal-blackened clothes and boots on Helen’s kitchen floor, and Boyd spends a few minutes looking at the little pile of them against linoleum that had once been shiny and white, he’s sure. At the sound of the shower running, he gets up to check that the curtains are closed, and lock the door. If he lingers too long, Raylan will use up all the hot water. Boyd may not mind a cold shower, it’s better than leaving black streaks on everything he touches, but he’s got better plans for tonight.

 

21

 

There’s a six-pack sitting on the table, leaving little rings of condensation etched into marked-up wood. A half-empty beer leaves cool drips and smears on skin as it’s passed back and forth between kisses and curses.

 

Raylan bites a path down the line of Boyd’s throat, careful to leave no mark, tongue briefly cool from his last swallow of beer. Boyd curses when Raylan finds the hollow between his collarbones, the back of his head striking the headboard he’s propped his shoulders against.

 

For once, Raylan takes his time, despite Boyd’s fervent protests - nothing like careful now, leaving a trail of marks scattered down his chest and across his ribs with intent.

 

He mouths his way down to the button of Boyd's jeans, and pauses. It would be so easy to tuck his fingers into Boyd's jeans and undo them. Instead, and much to Boyd’s frustration, he turns his head to nuzzle the exposed angle of a hipbone. There is a swipe of tongue, half on skin, half on denim, before he moves on. Boyd groans as the heat burns its way through the thick material.

 

Raylan follows the junction of hip and thigh with his tongue, and his nose on the way back down, inhaling slow and purposeful while Boyd’s legs shake.

 

“Jesus, Raylan, you’ll be the death of me,” Boyd tries to laugh, but its broken apart by the breathless heave of his chest when Raylan’s mouth finally finds its place.

 

_Raylan showed up on his doorstep, a six-pack in each hand for an offering and contrition in his eyes. Boyd didn’t ask. Patience has ever been a virtue, and it has always been particularly true in dealings with Raylan Givens._

_Nearing the end of the first pack, his confession ate its way out of his chest and up into his mouth. “I’m leaving Harlan,” he said, businesslike, and avoided Boyd’s eyes._

_“Gonna join the marines, get out once and for all,” Raylan added, filling Boyd’s waiting silence._

_He stole a glance at Boyd across the table, and asked quietly, “You could come with me.”_


End file.
